Miss me?
by I'm Nova
Summary: For the current Tumblr Sherlock challenge, Hidden Talents. A scene I thought was happening during season 4 episode 1, The Six Thatchers, but didn't - so both spoilers for the general situation and not-canon compliant. Mrs. Hudson has unsuspected skills...and no compunction using them.


_Disclaimer: I don't own a single thing. A.N. I know, I know, I need to end the Sherlock challenge from December and here I am publishing something for the January Sherlock challenge on Tumblr. I promise. I'll get to everything... eventually. ^^''' But while I was watching **The Six Thatchers** I had a 'WTF' moment so big I had to share. Of course, I had misinterpreted everything, so this is not what actually happens in the episode. This is very much **TST** not Canon compliant. But I had fun. (Seriously, I've been talking about **The Six Thatchers** for a while. If you still haven't watched it – why haven't you? –, read this and complain I spoiled you, I don't know how to help you out.)_

Miss me?

Life had become nothing more than a long series of shocks, it seemed. Sherlock, the world's only consulting detective, had once been twelve paces ahead of everyone else, knowing what friends and foes (with the exception of the Woman) did or planned before the person in question was aware of it sometimes.

Since he'd come back from his...tour (he didn't want to think about it – he very much didn't want to call it the proper name), he'd not anticipated people's actions, even when he wanted to comfort himself saying he did. The sleuth had become reactive, not active – planning ahead and putting people exactly in the position to have to act like he wanted them to do (Mycroft's best lesson). And his brother was right – not that the British government knew by experience – being in such a position was exhausting. How did normal people manage to go around and live their dull, daily lives this way without breaking under the strain? It made no sense.

Of course, his lack of anticipation (of Mary; Magnussen; Moriarty, even if he wanted to pretend he'd solved that one) was more than worrying. Could his brain's ability be used up? (Had it been the drugs finally destroying his synapses?) No, it was useless to lie to himself. That's how he got in this situation in the first place. It was sentiment. He'd used sentiment as a lifeline to hold onto during his years away, what with him lacking the proper training to deal with...things. Things he couldn't seem to delete and kept bolted and out of sight in the dungeons of his mind palace.

He'd been blinding himself to things he saw, because he didn't like the resulting deductions. Because they'd be painful to acknowledge, and hurtful to share. He'd taken wishful thinking for fact. Look where all that had brought him. If it had killed him, well, that would have been _fine_. Sherlock never expected to live to old age anyway.

But no, the result of his idiocy (stupid little brother, Mycroft supplied unhelpfully from his mind palace) was that John was grieving – again – and (reasonably, why wouldn't he, Sherlock was supposed to protect...he'd sworn...) now hated him. Honestly, if his (former) best friend had chosen to murder him in a fit of rage, it would have been way less painful.

So, when he'd found Mrs. Hudson ready to welcome him, and take care of him, make him tea and – who knows – maybe even give him a hug if he asked nicely, he'd been relieved. She might not technically be his mummy, but she could as well have been, and she'd often given good advice when her boys had a little domestic. Only this time there was nothing to do, because what happened couldn't be undone, but maybe...?

And she'd done all that, and cried (cried so he didn't have to) and she had a plan. Well, not a plan really, but she knew what to do. To make it better. Perhaps. Hopefully. If only he could follow her suggestions. If John didn't truly hate him now (did he?)

He needed a distraction. Work. A case would tide him over. Besides, if he found something juicy enough perhaps John could be tempted back. He liked a good case as much as Sherlock himself. He'd just sat down, starting his computer, when something jumped at his attention. A disk he'd not put there. A disk asking, "Miss me?" He barely controlled a shiver. "Mrs. Hudson. What is that?" he asked, voice carefully even.

The old lady chuckled, apparently embarrassed. "Ah, that's mine. Sorry, Sherlock, I didn't mean for you to find it, but you got home so soon. Anyway, it's empty at the moment." She waved a hand in a vague gesture.

"Why did you bring up an empty disk?" he asked, heart beating too loudly. Mrs. Hudson was Mrs. Hudson, of course she would never hurt him, much less be in cahoots with...but miss me...

"Because I'd accidentally left a file in your computer, I'm lucky you haven't come across it, honestly, and I thought it was time to save it for myself and leave your computer clean," she said cheerfully.

"Mrs. Hudson...do you mean you've used my computer when I wasn't there? It's password protected, and you, frankly speaking, are awful at technology," the sleuth retorted, frowning. It had to be a lie. But why would she?

"Oh, dear, as far as passwords go...with Frank, I got a certain experience not only in typing, but in coding. Explicit documents were a no-no, you see. And no matter what coding system you use, the equivalent of IloveJohn291does not make for a secure password...not from anyone who knows you," Mrs. Hudson pointed out gently.

Sherlock blushed violently. He knew he shouldn't have done that. But typing it – well, not it, the coded, hidden version – made him feel better. God, he was messed up. "This still doesn't explain why you'd use my computer. Why, it took you so long to learn how to comment on John's blog, and still you would confuse a website, a mail address and a profile! I could never figure out what you wanted when you asked me questions about technology," he insisted. Deflecting from his sentiment to the question at hand.

"True, Sherlock. And it used to annoy you to no end. But you've been away, and John moved out, so I was alone, and well, bridge with Mrs. Turner couldn't fill all my days. I decided to learn about all these new gadgets. I had lots of time, you see. It ended up that the reason I was useless with these was that my brain refused the whole 'you press that because I tell you it works'. I wanted to know why. And programming was not beyond my ken. After all, it's logic," the old lady explained softly.

"Why didn't I see the change? I should have!" the sleuth wondered aloud, frowning. This was concerning. Very much so.

"Don't blame yourself too much, love. Since you've been back, you've been rather busy. Even the apparently quiet stretches before Christmas, well, you had a lot to occupy that big brain of yours. And your heart. The change did not pose you a threat, so it got filtered out from your mind palace. I do know you don't pay much attention to me, not even when I'm actually talking to you, half the time, and that's fine. If I learned anything from my sister, is that you're behaving with me like a son with his own mummy, and I'm rather proud of that," Mrs. Hudson comforted, resting a feather-light hand on his shoulder.

The consulting detective had no idea how to react to such a declaration. Denying it would be a lie, and while he certainly did not shy from lying if the occasion required it, he was afraid that it wouldn't work with Mrs. Hudson – she'd always been almost scarily perceptive (a talent her rather unfortunate marriage had sharpened, no doubt). Agreeing... wouldn't that be stating the obvious (to her, at least)? He'd always hated people who did that. Leaning into the touch was all too tempting, but he didn't deserve that. Not now.

After a few seconds of silence, he opted for the safe option – continue his previous enquiry. "You still haven't told me what you used my computer for...and what you left inside it," he asked, looking at the screen. He'd been so blind recently, what meaning there was even to watching people if he couldn't read them properly anymore?

"Can't you deduce it?" the old lady teased kindly. Honestly, she believed in proper labelling, unlike someone else she knew.

The detective's only reaction was a huff of annoyance.

"Fine, fine," she conceded, smiling. "Let me have your seat, and I can do what I'd come to do in the first place, and you'll see it."

Sherlock obeyed that without grumbling. He needed the secrets to end. (At least these.)

A quick bit of typing, and the Moriarty 'miss me?' video that had been his salvation and bane came up on the screen. The sleuth tried without entire success to repress a shudder. "Don't tell me you've been behind Moriarty's 'resurrection'!" he blurted out.

"Did you really think I could let you pay for protecting John and having ridden the world of someone who would pee in _my_ fireplace? I'm still puzzled about why you didn't get a medal for that, but life isn't fair, I suppose," Mrs. Hudson remarked with a shrug.

The sleuth was tempted to hug her, but refrained. Besides, what if this was a move to even the field between them so his landlady could finally get rid of him? She'd owed him from saving her from her husband. Sherlock, confident in her gratefulness and feeling to be indebted to him, had often done whatever he felt like – she wouldn't evict him. But now they were certainly even. Mrs. Hudson could throw him out any second.

If he'd been thinking straight, he would have seen the absurdity of saving someone's life only to boot him out – it wasn't like he would darken her flat anymore if he went on a death mission. But with John's angry contempt still taking all the free space in his brain, he couldn't help but expect the same from everyone else in his life. It made sense to him.

Before he could follow that train of thought to its excruciating conclusion, and possibly offer to move out before being chased away (for the sake of his pride if nothing else), something else derailed him. "How did you obtain Moriarty's recording?" the detective asked, frowning.

"Ah, that. It was obvious that Moriarty had obtained information from your brother. Even John figured out that much. I couldn't understand why Mycroft would do that. I asked him, but he wouldn't answer. Just typical of him. When I learned all these technological intricacies, of course I had to test it by recovering Moriarty's files from him. I needed to know, you see," his landlady explained. "I didn't think to look into current projects, though. So I really didn't know you were safe. Terribly remiss of me, I know."

"You. Hacked. Mycroft's. Files," Sherlock said slowly, despite his distaste for stating the obvious. She'd just said as much, but someone this didn't feel obvious at all.

"Yep. I had to go to an internet café for that, though. I thought it was more sensible. I programmed the video for being spread after a while, then went home and just went about my business. I lost sense of time, and it actually surprised me. I might have over-acted a while, just in case Mycroft was still checking on me, though. As for my latest endeavour, with your computer being better than mine, well, I helped myself to it. I hope you're not angry about that. They won't trace it back, and even if they did, you have the best alibi in the world – always been under their eyes," she remarked softly.

"Of course not. I...thank you, Mrs. Hudson. But why didn't you tell me?" the consulting detective inquired.

"Well, you were always so busy, and seemed so...enthusiastic. I didn't want to disturb your happiness, dear," Mrs. Hudson said, while deleting every trace of the file from his computer. "There. It's done. Don't worry, Sherlock, things will get better. And if you ever need help – anything at all – you only have to ask. Anytime. Anything. You know that, right?"

"Now I do, Mrs. Hudson. Now I do."


End file.
